


Emotion Study: Hatred

by UberDuper



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Emotion Study, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5723215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UberDuper/pseuds/UberDuper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short ficlets written for the purpose of deepening the understanding of an emotion, hatred in this case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hate From Fear

People stand and scuttle and scurry around the Super High School Level Cook and talk. They talk about things that don't mean anything to him. The other students are lucky. From the way they act, always laughing and talking and carrying on, they don't have anything to worry about. Their lives are good, they're carefree and happy. And he's not.

Hanamura stared down at the knife in his hands, the spring onion below that has already been severed from its stalk by his blade. His thoughts drifted to his mother, his poor sickly mother. She had always been strong in his eyes, the strongest person he knew. And yet... he knew that she wasn't in a good position, health wise. That was why he was here, at Hope's Peak Academy. Because he needed to succeed here, so he could go back home and succeed there, so his mother would be okay.

All the other students seemed like they didn't have anything to worry about. And for that, Hanamura hated them. It was a cold hate that felt misdirected, and yet there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was always there, the hate, a chilly feeling that tightened his chest whenever he saw one of the other students laugh like there was nothing to worry about.

He was afraid. Afraid for his mother, afraid for what might happen if he couldn't get through this year successfully. Afraid that he wouldn't be there for her when she needed him. Afraid that he wouldn't be good enough for them, for the school and for the world beyond its walls. Afraid that his upbringing in the countryside would turn him into a joke. Afraid that nobody would take him seriously and would laugh at the country boy trying his best to make it big. Afraid that he would fail his mother because of it. And all of that fear... it was too much to think about. So he redirected it. Into his cooking. Into his demeanor. Into his hate. The hate was a silent thing, too much of a coward to leave the cold pit it had created in his stomach. But that didn't stop it from existing.

“Hanamura.” Somebody said, drawing his attention from the green onion and the knife and his feelings. They held out a piece of paper, an order. This was how he spent his time trying to get away from the anger, working with a few other students to manage a 'restaurant' of sorts in the Hope's Peak Academy kitchen, where anything he could have ever hoped for in a kitchen resided.

Hanamura slapped on a smile, afraid of how the others would see him if he didn't put on the front he did. His brow raised ever so slightly, mouth curling up in a smile that would have been a sneer if his eyebrows had done what his mouth wanted.

“Thank you, darling.” The glare they shot him settled into the pit of his stomach. Being glared at was better than being made fun of. Not much, but it still was. Hanamura read over the order, setting the paper next to the other two detailing the food he was to prepare. It was simple and wouldn't take him long.

And Teruteru Hanamura went back to his knife and his green onion and his hate, for they kept him from the fear for his mother and of laughter and failure. And hate was better than failure.

 


	2. Hate That Expresses Love

It was for _her_ that Mikan Tsumiki hated others. It was for the one girl, no, the one _person_ to ever make her feel human. It was for Junko Enoshima that Tsumiki felt hate. And Junko was the only person Tsumiki could never hate, never for her entire life, her entire existence. Junko meant the world to her and it was because of Junko that Tsumiki ever felt hate in the first place. But she could never hate Junko. Never ever.

To others, Tsumiki was useless. Useless unless they needed her; as a nurse, as a way to put out a cigarette or dispose of garbage, as an outlet for anger or frustration. Mikan Tsumiki was worse than dirt, worse than scum, worse than trash. But she didn't hate them because she _couldn't_. How was she to know that hate was the proper response to their mistreatment of her? How was she to know it was mistreatment at all?

“ _Hey...”_

And then Junko, darling, amazing, sweet, beautiful, _perfect_ Junko came into her life. And Junko taught her to hate. She showed Tsumiki what it was like to be a human. Not a canvas for obscene drawings, not a punching bag for words and fists, not something to be _used_ , not like that.

Junko cared for her. Junko held her and comforted her and _loved_ her. Junko dug her up from her hole in the ground, a hole six feet under the surface that others had made Tsumiki dig, a hole that others had pushed her into.

“ _Hello?...”_

And Tsumiki had wanted to pay Junko back. She had begged and pleaded with her love, desperate for _anything_ she could do to make up for even a fraction of what Junko had done for her. And Junko had leaned down to whisper to her, perfect lips ghosting over the shell of her unworthy ear, the fashionista's honey sweet voice slowly sliding into her and cementing itself into the center of her brain. Tsumiki took those words to heart.

“Tsumiki,” Junko said, and the nurse's name sounded like heaven coming from her lips, a name that finally had worth to _somebody_. “There's one thing you can do for me.” And Tsumiki had tensed up, ready for whatever Junko said. And she would do anything, give anything, for Junko to be happy with her. “ _Hate_ _them_.” Junko said. “Hate everybody who's ever done anything less than what I've done for you.” And that meant that Tsumiki hated everybody.

“Tsumiki!”

The nurse's attention was snapped back to reality with a startled yelp. Snickers and snorts filled the classroom, while the teacher's hard gaze bored into her's. She gulped, a lump forming in her throat, and glanced around. No idea what was going on. The teacher looked at her expectantly.

“The answer, please.”

“U-Uhm... c-could you r-r-repeat the question, p-please?” Her timid response drew another wave of giggles and jeers. Tsumiki's face grew red and a heat began forming behind her eyes. Her hands and stomach clenched, and her jaw tightened.

“...I think I'll just ask somebody who was _paying attention_ to what was going on.” The teacher turned away, and Tsumiki slumped in her seat, burying her face into her folded arms. A wad of paper bounced off the back of her head, but she didn't bother to look at it. It probably said the same things all of the other ones did. 'Slut' and 'Dumbass' were common, though sometimes the other students sent a solid sentence or two her way.

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes as her lungs fluttered, desperate for a large breath that she wouldn't allow. A familiar heat began to creep up on her, chest tightening and head aching. And as her fists clenched, the words that Junko had told her bubbled up in her mind. _'Hate them.'_

And things made sense again. Thinking of Junko drew a giggle from her lips, even as that heat buzzed angrily over her skin. She sat up, a small smile on her face. The pencil thrown at her back went ignored, as did the kick to her chair. Junko was right. She always was.

For the rest of class, Tsumiki focused on these feelings. The feeling of fire underneath her skin, coursing through her veins. The slight tremble in her palms as she wiped away the beading sweat there. The way she quivered at her... less than acceptable thoughts, ones involving scalpels and operating tables and the people around her with nothing wrong with them, medically, of course.

And it was there in that shitty classroom full of people who hated her, wanted her gone and out of their lives or wanted her there as an easy target, that Tsumiki once again remembered how to properly hate. All she had to do was think of Junko, and how much she loved her, and the hate came in after. Because nobody could love her like Junko loved her, and nobody accepted her love like Junko did.

And all of her love finally had a place to go, no longer wasted on others who would return it with cigarette butts and curse words. So she had to give something else to others, right? Wrong. Tsumiki had a lot of hate to give now that the love was gone, given to somebody who would cherish it. But when she hated... that was love too. Not for others, no, they didn't deserve it. Nobody but Junko deserved her love. And Junko wanted her to hate. So her hate belonged to Junko too, right? So her love went to Junko and her hate went to Junko too, just a different form of her love.

Just the thought of giving so much love to Junko made her giddy, light headed. She practically floated out of the door as class ended, deaf to the teacher requesting she stay after. And Tsumiki was happy to find that the action was out of spite, stemmed from her hate, which was a product of the only thing that kept her going.

Love.

 


	3. Hate That Was Love

Mahiru Koizumi hated her mother. That's all there was to it. The wind whistled around the photographer, heavy with anticipation, and it ruffled her red hair. Its fingers combed over her scalp, invisible hand slipping down the back of her shirt to tickle at her spine. She shuddered involuntarily, camera clenched in her grasp.

Koizumi used to love her mother. It was simple. Her, her mother, and her father. They lived together in a normal house, a regular suburban family. Or rather, that's what they could have been, had her mother not been a war photographer and her father not been prone to neglect and harsh expectations. There was once a time in which she loved them despite their flaws, despite her mother's absence and her father's harshness.

Her mother's pictures were moving. Images of war torn landscapes and wounded soldiers caught attention. Shots of helpless refugees and the rubble of buildings brought heavy feelings to mind. They touched hearts and won valuable awards. They brought tears to eyes and thoughts to minds. They were valuable. _Her mother_ was valuable.

And in comparison, what was she? Her preferences were light, the opposite of her mother. Koizumi took pictures of laughing children and smiling parents. Only, she hardly ever laughed and her parents rarely smiled, almost never at her. So, to her, the pictures were empty. Fake. She was the opposite of her mother. Where her mother made light of the dark, Koizumi brought dark thoughts to the light. Where her mother was kind to others, Koizumi was harsh. And where her mother was valuable, Koizumi was _worthless_.

For that, for bringing her into this world to be worthless, Koizumi hated her mother. There were times where she desperately tried to remember what that love felt like, tried as hard as she could in order to feel that love that a child does for their parent. But the gentle warmth of love and affection were now replaced by a chilly and hard feeling. Hatred.

It was a funny thing, Koizumi mused, to hate one's own parents. To feel a burning feeling of acidic disgust where a pleasant feeling of joy once settled. To frown instead of smile when spoken to. To feel like the only way to deal with this volatile feeling in her stomach was to scream and swing fists and cry and vomit words that were a step away from venom.

Love was just a step away from hatred, really. Koizumi pondered as she cleaned the lens of her camera. Both were strong feelings towards another person. They both could be felt at the drop of a hat, a sudden rush of emotion triggered by the smallest of things, like they way they said her name and the way they touched her shoulder. The love that Koizumi held for _her_ was so similar to the hatred she held for her parents that, when she thought about it, it startled her a little bit. Love and hate were just two sides of the same coin.

She turned to look out of the window beside her. Cracks spider webbed across the panes, a few chunks of glass missing. The wind that so uncomfortably caressed her flowed through the tiny holes, as did the sounds of gunfire that she had grown accustomed to.

Her mother wanted to take pictures of warzones and death and disease? Fine. Just to spite her, Koizumi would as well. How her mother would be disappointed that she wasn't doing what she enjoyed. Good, let her mother be disappointed. It only made it easier to hate her. Koizumi took one last picture of the pair of corpses before her, slouched against a familiar bedroom wall, holding hands in a final, desperate embrace. The redhead exited her house and began strolling towards the sounds of gunfire, camera in hand. Mahiru Koizumi hated her mother.

 

 


End file.
